


swallow

by Anonymous



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1940s, Cock Warming, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Master of Death Harry Potter, Older Man/Younger Man, POV Tom Riddle, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:28:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24151333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Sometimes I forget how to swallow.***Tom meets a man. The man feeds him. Many times.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Comments: 9
Kudos: 439
Collections: Anonymous





	swallow

Sometimes I forget how to swallow. The soup forms a lump in my throat - it's warm and nice, carrots and peas and potatoes - and I get overwhelmed. I never eat such things, not when I'm not with him.

When he sees my struggle, he helps. His hand feels soft and hot against my neck and my skin tingles. It's like fire, I think every time it happens, like fire without burn. He tells me to take it easy - slowly, just like this - and when I finally swallow he says I'm his good boy. My heart flutters every time, no matter how often I hear it.

I eat at his feet. He's offered me to sit by his side, but I've always declined. It would make it all too real. And if it's not real, then no one can take it away from me.

One day, I like to think when I'm alone in my room above the shop, the sheets around my body rough and cold, one day he'll take me away. I don't know if I believe it - why would anyone take me away? - but I want to. There's some comfort in the possibility of being wanted that much.

I don't think about it when I'm with him, when I forget how to swallow and he helps me. I lay my head on his knee as he finishes his meal and I can feel his scent, spicy and rich. I wonder if people can smell it on me too. I wish they could.

There's a certain routine when we meet. He feeds me and I try to eat properly, even if my stomach aches from hunger. I can never eat too much, but he doesn't mind. He's forgiving. If he has any expectations, he never says it aloud. Still, I wish one day I could raise up to them, to make him proud.

When he's finished, we leave the table and go to his living room or the library, if he has to work. Sometimes he carries me in his arms and I feel safe against his chest. His heartbeat is steady, so unlike mine, and his embrace is like an anchor. It keeps me solid.

If he has to read or write something, he lets me nap on the couch. It's soft and nothing like my bed, but I don't like it. I don't like to be away from him. Our time together is limited and the days we can meet make me feel like a burglar. I steal his time and his space and his dignity. In return, he does the same to me.

His desk is big and I can fit under it. He parts his legs enough for me to slip between them and if I focus hard enough, I can feel the blood rushing through the veins under his knees. Sometimes, when I'm really tired and he's too distracted to pay attention, I doze off. The floor isn't that hard and if it's cold outside he gives me one of the thick blankets he hides in the old trunk in the spare room. I don't know why he has a spare room when no one ever visits him - no one but me - but I don't ask. In the end it doesn't bother me that much, not when he's so close and I wrap my arms around his thigh and breathe him in.

There are other days too, days when he isn't really working. He likes to pretend, though I'm not sure why. His job is important and many people count on him, he says, but he gets frustrated. Even if he doesn't want to show it, I can feel it. His muscles tense and his fists clench on the papers in his hands. When it happens, I kiss him through the fabric of his dark pants. He seems surprised every time.

Sometimes he doesn't really want me to go on. His hand rests on my head and he brushes my hair gently, his voice soft and quiet, nothing more than a sigh. These days, I can see that he's tired. When I undo his pants, he's soft. I don't stroke him; it's obvious he doesn't want it. But I take him inside my mouth nonetheless, just to feel his weight on my tongue, and I wonder who does it comfort more - me? or him?

Some days he gets hard in my mouth. Some days I make him hard. Some days he lets me rest between his legs, but doesn't allow me to touch him. I ask and I beg. He smirks and teases me - will you be a good boy? - but in the end he always allows me to go on. He knows how much I like it, the feeling of his stretched skin buzzing on my tongue. When I take him inside, he groans, his hand on the back of my neck as if he’s afraid that I could run away. For some reason he cannot believe I don't want to.

When it comes to him, I never forget how to swallow.


End file.
